Masters of the Wheat-Lands

by Harold Bindloss

The light died out suddenly, and Agatha and the little girls drew their chairs close up to the stove. The house was very quiet, and Agatha could hear the mournful wailing of the wind about it, with now and then the soft swish of driven snow upon the walls and roofing shingles.

The table was laid for supper, and the kettle was singing cheerfully upon the stove, but there was no sign of the other members of the family, and presently Agatha began to feel a little anxious. Mrs. Hastings, she fancied, would stay one night at Lander’s, if there was any unfavorable change in the weather, but she wondered what could be detaining Hastings. It was not very far to the bluff, and as he could not have continued chopping in the darkness it seemed to her that he should have reached the homestead.

He did not come, however, and she grew more uneasy as the time slipped by. The wail of the wind grew louder and the stove crackled more noisily. At last one of the little girls rose with a cry that she thought she heard the beat of hoofs. The impression grew more distinct until she was sure that some one was riding toward the homestead, and Agatha heard the hoofbeats, but soon after that the sound ceased abruptly, and she could not hear the rattle of flung-down logs which she had expected. This struck Agatha as curious, since she knew that Hastings generally unloaded the sled before he led the team to the stable. She waited a moment or two, but except for the doleful wind nothing broke the silence now, and when the stillness became oppressive she moved towards the door.

The wind tore the door from her grasp when she opened it, and flung it against the wall with a jarring crash, while a fine powder that stung the skin unbearably drove into her face. For a few moments she could see nothing but a whirling haze, and then, as her eyes became accustomed to the change of light, she dimly made out the blurred white figures of the horses standing still, with the load of birch logs rising a shapeless mass behind them. There seemed to be nobody with the team, and, though she twice called sharply, no answer came out of the falling snow. Then she recognized the significant fact that the team had come home alone.

It was difficult to close the door, and before she accomplished what was a feat of strength her hands had stiffened and grown almost useless, and the hall was strewn with snow. It was every evident that there was something for her to do. It cost her three or four minutes to slip on a blanket skirt, and soft hide moccasins, with gum boots over them. Muffled in her furs, she opened the door again. When she had contrived to close it, the cold struck through her to the bone as she floundered towards the team. There was nobody to whom she could look for assistance, but that could not be helped. It was evident that some misfortune had befallen Hastings and that she must act wisely and quickly.

The first thing necessary was to unload the sled, and, though the birches seldom grow to any size in a prairie bluff, some of the logs were heavy. She was gasping with the effort when she had flung a few of them down, after which she discovered that the rest were held up by one or two stout poles let into sockets. Try as she would, she could not get them out, and then she remembered that Hastings kept a whipsaw in a shed close by. She contrived to find it, and attacked the poles in breathless haste, working clumsily with mittened hands, until there was a crash and rattle as she sprang clear. Then she started the team, and the rest of the logs rolled off into the snow.

That was one difficulty overcome, but the next appeared more serious. She must find the bluff as soon as possible, and in the snow-filled darkness she could not tell where it lay. Even if she could have seen anything of the kind, there was no landmark on the desolate level waste between it and the homestead. She, however, remembered that she had one guide.

Hastings and his hired man had recently hauled in a great many loads of birch logs, and as they had made a well-worn trail it seemed to her just possible that she might trace it back to the bluff. No great weight of snow had fallen yet.

Before Agatha set out she had a struggle with the team, for the horses evidently had no intention of making another journey if they could help it, but at last she swung them into the narrow riband of trail, and plodded away into the darkness at their heads. It was then that she first clearly realized what she had undertaken. Very little of her face was left bare between her fur cap and collar, but every inch of uncovered skin tingled as if it had been lashed with thorns or stabbed with innumerable needles. The air was thick with a fine powder that filled her eyes and nostrils, the wind buffeted her, and there was an awful cold—the cold that taxes the utmost strength of mind and body of those who are forced to face it on the shelterless prairie.

Still the girl struggled on, feeling with half-frozen feet for the depression of the trail, and grappling with a horrible dismay when she failed to find it. She was never sure to what extent she guided the team, or how far from mere force of habit they headed for the bluff, but as the time went by, and there was nothing before her but the whirling snow, she grew feverishly apprehensive. The trail was becoming fainter and fainter, and now and then she could find no trace of it for several minutes.